The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (25 page)

“Yet it is hard
to say.”

“Then simply say
it.”

Lady Sarah
nodded, her face resolved. “I heard a rumor in the marketplace. A terrible,
vicious rumor.”

Liandra stilled,
as if an axe were about to fall.

“They say…,”
Lady Sarah looked away, taking a deep breath, “they say the queen bore a child
to the Dark Lord, a stillborn bastard with horns and cloven hooves. They say
the monstrosity proves the queen is cursed and her city damned.”

A spear pierced
her heart. “Our people…say this of us?”

Lady Sarah gave
the smallest of nods, her face stricken with sorrow, her voice a whisper. “I
heard it more than once.”

“Yet we saved
them from the Flame!” Liandra struggled to understand. “Despite the war,
prosperity flows like a river to our people.”

“Lies, they are
just lies.”

“Yet our people
repeat them.” The queen stood. “When lies are repeated oft enough they gain a
life of their own.” Unable to contain her anxiety, she began to pace in front
of the fire. “Why would our people believe such follies, such blatant lies?'
The answer hit like a falling anvil. "Unless they have lost the capacity
to discern the truth.” The thought chilled her like no other.

Liandra paced in
front of the fire, her mind working through the maze of small details like a
mouse seeking a way out. The details clicked into place with terrifying
conviction. “Our crown is under assault. We need help, but not of the ordinary
kind.” She needed allies who knew how to fight shadows. She needed Robert, but
he was still far away in Lingard. Her mind seized on a name. “Master Numar!”
The queen strode to her desk. Reaching for a fresh parchment, she dipped quill
in ink and began to write. Her quill sped across the parchment. Finished, she
melted a glob of emerald wax and affixed the royal seal. “Take this to Master
Numar. A monk of the Kiralynn Order, he poses as a master apothecary. You will
find his shop on apothecary row in the south side of the city. A white
unicorn’s head surmounts the door.” Liandra pressed the letter into Lady
Sarah’s hands. “Go to him, but have a care lest you are followed. Bring him to
us under some pretext, any minor ailment will do, but bring him quickly and
make sure you are not followed.”

Lady Sarah's
face blanched pale. "Majesty, I fear for you."

"We fear
for our life, as well as our kingdom. Bring us the monk, and perhaps he can
help divine the enemy behind this vile assault."

"I will
bring him, majesty." She dipped a deep curtsy and was gone.

The queen paced
in front of the hearth till the fire burnt to embers. Her crown was under
assault, she felt it in the marrow of her bones…yet there was so little proof,
nothing but outrageous lies and lavish banquets, yet she felt the noose
tightening around her, a stranglehold of Darkness. Her gaze came to rest on the
scrolls piled on her desk. So many weighty matters vied for her attention. Her
army waged a desperate war in the north, while her kingdom was barely recovered
from the assault of the Flame, and now she found herself fencing with
shadows…yet somehow she felt the shadows posed the greatest threat. A
conviction grew in her mind. Somehow she must counter these lies and innuendos.
Her mirrored reflection caught her gaze. A cornered queen stared back at her.
Liandra stilled, disturbed by her reflection. Image remained one of her
greatest strengths. The queen resolved to arm herself with image…and to seek
allies against the shadows, to sow truth against the lies. Perhaps the monk
could help. Somehow she had to save her people and her crown...before the shadows
held sway over her kingdom.  

46

Steffan

He'd had no word
from her. Nothing but silence since that first night when her carriage returned
empty from the Mordant's mansion. He'd pestered Braxus and the others, but they
had nothing for him. Not one whispered message from her seneschal, not one
hastily scrawled note smuggled by her handmaidens, not one word to prove she
still cared...or that she still lived.

Not knowing was
driving him mad.

But Steffan was
not without resources. In Rhune he'd found unexpected allies, a defrocked
bishop and a ragtag cadre of soldiers, all of them veterans of the Flame War.
Living in the woods, shunned as outcasts, they'd sought service with the Lord
Raven. At first it amused him to keep them at his beck and call, a secret
withheld from the Priestess, a dagger hidden in the dark, but then he found
their purpose. Unwilling to return to Pellanor without protection, he'd sent
them ahead as a secret vanguard. It was time to collect his hidden dagger.
Pulling the hood of his cloak up to hide his face, Steffan made his way through
the back alleys, threading a path to the shadier side of the queen's city. He
found Bishop Tilden waiting for him in the Brass Rose, a shoddy inn where the
flash of coin paid for ale, whores, and silence.

"Wondered
when you'd get here." The fat bishop had traded his red robes for
mismatched leathers. Salt and pepper whiskers studded his jowly face, the stink
of sour ale hovering about him like a pesky fly.

Steffan took a
seat at the round table, far enough away to avoid the worst of the bishop's
stench. Ordering an ale, he waited till the serving wench moved beyond hearing.
Setting a purse thick with golds on the table, he pushed it towards the
prelate. "Where are the others?"

The bishop
snatched the purse, weighing it in his hand, before vanishing it to his belt. A
grin split his fat lips. "Good as gold. I'll give you that, Lord Raven,
yer always good for gold."

Steffan hissed.
"Not that title!" He shot a vile glare at the prelate. "I'm the
Lord Darkmoor."

"Yes,
m'lord." The feigned look of contrition slid to a sly smile. "Is it
that easy to become a lord? Just call yerself one? Snatch a title from thin air
and we're all lords?"

Steffan began to
wonder if the bishop was addled by ale...or begging for a knife in the back.
His hand slid to his dagger, his voice a keen whisper. "If you take my
gold then you serve or die."

The bishop
struggled to sober. "Sorry, m'lord, I'm your man."

Steffan drilled
him with his stare, but this time the bishop seemed truly contrite. "Where
are the others?"

The bishop
gestured to the far corner. "Donklin, Marks, and Tandon are dicing. Scrobe
and Scanlon are spending their pay with a couple of whores upstairs."

"And the
rest?"

"Scattered
about at different inns. You said we should split up."

"Good."
Steffan cast a lazy glance toward the three in the far corner. "Tell me
about those three."

The bishop
shrugged. "Tandon prefers the halberd but all three are decent
swords."

"Who's the
best?"

" Donklin,
he served as a captain in the fourth brigade."

The fourth
brigade,
veterans of Lingard...and the sack of Pellanor, Steffan suppressed
a snarl at the bitter loss. "Then Donklin will serve."

Bishop Tilden
raised a bushy eyebrow laden with questions. "Serve fer what?"

Steffan cut off
his inquiry. "I need a sharp sword and a good head for a scouting
job."

"A scouting
job?" Suspicion salted the bishop's words.

"A rival
has something I want."

"We're all
wantin' somethin'. Me, I miss my miter and my mace. The war was good to
me...till it ended." The bishop shrugged, taking a swig of ale.

Steffan made his
decision. "I'll meet you for dinner tonight, an hour past sunset, at the
Whiskey Lady, best steak and kidney pie in the queen's city. And I'll stand you
a bottle of their best whiskey. The barkeep can tell you where it is."
Steffan's voice dropped to a conspirator's whisper. "But come alone, I
won't pay for the others."

A grin split the
bishop's face. "Now yer talkin'." He hefted a tankard of ale.
"Tonight at the Whiskey Lady."

"Tonight."
Steffan took his leave of the bishop and then strolled to the back corner,
pretending to be lured by the sound of dice. Like the bishop, the three men
seated at the table had forsaken the colors of the Flame for mismatched
leathers, but unlike the fat prelate they had the sharp, prickly look of
soldiers turned hardened mercenaries. Steffan slid a small stack of silver
coins onto the table. "I'm looking for a dice game. Mind if I join
you?"

A man with a
craggy face answered with a shrug. "Silver says you're welcome."

Steffan took a
seat at the table, holding the man's gaze. "Donklin of the fourth?"

The craggy man
nodded, one hand slipping to a dagger at his belt. "Aye."

"Then you
remember the raven." It was a statement, not a question.

Donklin gave a
slow nod. "Aye." His gaze narrowed. "There was glory beneath
that banner...and loss."

"I seek
glory of another sort, but I need swords that serve."

"The army
is gone, but your gold got us out of the muddy backwaters. We're here to serve,
Lord Darkmoor."

A sharp sword
with a sharp mind,
just what he needed. "Good, I need..."

The serving
wench brought his tankard of ale, silencing the talk. Dark curly hair and a
fading figure, she cast her gaze across Steffan's handsome face and the dashing
cut of his cloak. Smiling, she leaned towards him, offering a flirtatious wink.
"We serve more than ale here, sweetie."

He smothered a
scowl, like tasting gutter water after the ambrosia of the Priestess. "Not
today."

She brushed
against him as she sauntered past, like a cat leaving its mark. "Ask for
Marla when you change your mind."

Steffan waited
till the wench was beyond hearing. His gaze fixed on Donklin.  "I need you
to come with me. I've a task for your men but it needs an officer's eye."

One of the
others said, "Three swords are better than one."

"Just one
for now, I don't want to draw too much attention."

"As you
wish." Donklin stood, a tall rangy man, his belt studded with three
daggers and a sword. "My blade is yours."

Steffan liked
the look of him, a captain of the Flame turned mercenary, the weapons at his
belt announcing a hardened man who clearly knew his trade. Pulling up his hood
to shadow his face, Steffan rose to leave.

The soldier with
the crooked teeth said, "Your silvers, lord."

Steffan could
not resist. "Let's bet on it." He reached for the dice, shaking them
with the skill of a veteran gambler. "Double or nothing if I roll snake
eyes?"

The three men
grinned, certain the odds were in their favor.

Steffan rolled
the dice. Invoking the Dark power came as easy as breathing. The others stared,
intent on certain victory. The dice rattled across the table...landing on
double ones.

"
Snake
eyes!"
the soldier hissed the words like a startled curse.

Donklin gave him
a thoughtful look. "You're lucky, lord."

"Luckier
than you know." Coin flowed like water to him, given his skill with dice.
"Keep my winnings, an advance on your next payment."

The men grinned
at his generosity, raising their tankards in salute.

"Come."
Steffan led the captain out of the tavern's musty gloom and into the sunlight.
The streets bustled with the noontime crowd. Commerce never slept in the
queen's city, legal or otherwise. Donklin stayed within Steffan's shadow, a
hand on his dagger, his alert gaze sweeping the crowd.

"Remember
this route. You'll need to return this way with your men."

"Aye."

"Tell me of
the bishop." Steffan's gaze slid towards Donklin.

His lip curled
in disgust. "He's fallen into his cups."

Steffan gave a
slow nod. "Ale has addled his wits...and I can't afford mistakes." He
saw no protest on the captain's face. "Someone needs to slit his throat
and ensure his silence."

Donklin grunted
assent.

"He's to
meet me at the Brass Rose for dinner tonight, an hour past sunset. It'd be best
if you did it before then. Perhaps on his way to the tavern."

Donklin's gaze
sharpened. "You set him up."

"A careless
drunk is of no use to anyone. You'll find a fat purse of my golds in his belt
pouch. Split it among the men, but first take a hefty bonus for your knife
work."

"As you
say."

Donklin seemed a
reasonable sort, not too greedy, not too bloodthirsty, willing to take orders,
willing to get his hands dirty, a perfect captain for his band of soldiers
turned sellswords. Satisfied with his choice, Steffan led him from the city's
shady side to the wealthy quarter. The cobbled streets widened and the houses
grew to the size of mansions. Marble facades and glass-paned windows added a
glistening sparkle to the streets. The patina of wealth was everywhere, from
the grand carriages polished to a shine, to the liveried footmen clad in bright
colors, to the elaborate topiaries decorating the walled gardens. Even the
smell improved, the reek of piss pots banished to the back alleyways, the front
streets perfumed with the sweet scents of flowering honeysuckle and jasmine
twining the wrought iron gates.

Beside him,
Donklin murmured, "You've picked a wealthy mark."

"Wealthy...and
dangerous."

"Never met
a wealthy mark that wasn't." Donklin grinned, "Wealth that isn't
dangerous don't stay wealthy."

So the man
knows his trade.
"Yes, but this one's particularly dangerous, like a
viper compared to a common woodland snake."

"So I
should take care not to get bit."

"If he
bites, you die."

Donklin gave him
a thoughtful nod, but he showed no signs of balking. "Good to know."

With uncanny ease,
Steffan led the captain through the wealthy district. He belonged among the
rich. Skilled at dice and lovemaking, he'd spent many a night winning golds
from the local lords, or tupping wealthy widows in plush bedchambers, but now
he played for higher stakes. An eager grin rode his face. Higher stakes and
higher risks, both appealed to the gambler in him.

From Braxus,
Steffan knew the Mordant had purchased the late Lord Nealy's mansion. Luck
favored the Raven, for Steffan knew the mansion well, having attended many
late-night parties with the snobbish lords. Remembering the way, his footsteps
threaded a steady path through the wealth-lined streets. "This is the
one." They strolled past a magnificent manse with the diamond-paned
windows. Walking no faster or slower than anyone else, they sauntered by and
then doubled back, lurking behind a waiting carriage while they took a closer
look. Crouched by Donklin, Steffan whispered, "There's an alleyway in the
back. The rear door opens onto the kitchen. The bedrooms are on the second
floor with a wine cellar in the basement."

Guards posing as
footmen stood on either side of the main doorway. Clad in purple livery, the
great golden wyrm boldly embroidered across their chests, they both wore short
swords belted to their sides.

Donklin hissed.
"I know that sigil, so your enemy is the prince of Ur!"

Steffan ground
his teeth. "He stole something of mine."

"What?
Wealth, power, and too many swords?"

"No, a
woman."

Donklin's eyes
widened. "This is about a woman?"

"Not just
any woman, the queen of Rhune."

"
The
seductress!"
the words hissed from the captain.

Steffan gave him
a warning glare. "A woman beyond compare. And I will have her back."

"How?"

"For now,
keep watch and wait. Have your men encircle the mansion. Keep track of those
who enter and leave. Learn how many swords guard the manse. Learn the prince's
habits. But most of all, keep watch for the woman. Once we know she's safe,
once we know the prince's ways, then we'll craft a plan."

"Fair
enough, but we may need more swords."

"Swords can
always be bought."

"If you
have the golds."

"I'll worry
about the golds, you watch for the woman. And take care, lest you attract
notice."

The carriage
began to move. Donklin drifted away to the shadows while Steffan sauntered down
the street. It felt good to give orders again, to have sharp swords at his beck
and call. Buoyed with confidence, he lengthened his stride. He'd get the
Priestess back and then he'd make his mark, putting his own twist on the Great
Dark Dance.